


Heartbeat

by thewitcherssongbird



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Drunk Jaskier | Dandelion, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:07:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22529098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewitcherssongbird/pseuds/thewitcherssongbird
Summary: Geralt doesn't understand what it means when Jaskier's pulse changes or why his breath catches, he doesn't understand why he either avoids Geralt or doesn't leave him alone. Geralt is confused about many things but mainly why he even cares.Jaskier knows Geralt isn't an idiot and he hasn't been very careful but he just can't help himself. He has a poet's soul and what he feels he sings. It won't be long now until Geralt figures it out, maybe he already has.Mutual pining, obliviousness and stupidity. Idiots in love amiright?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 57
Kudos: 1082





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! Welcome to my guilty pleasure: writing idiots in love. I hope to update regularly, I think I'm almost done with the writing, just te editing left really

At times it’s useful to have superhuman senses, but at other times, and Geralt begins to believe most of the time, it’s a real fucking curse. He can smell fear, lust, aggression, he can hear things ordinary humans can’t, a butterfly’s wingbeat, a creek bubbling a mile away, a predator sneaking through the bushes and he can see in the dark.

He can sense many things, but the thing he cannot smell or hear or see is what the hell Jaskier thinking about at night when he sits quietly, staring into the flames of the campfire with a melancholy expression on his face, as if he isn’t quite there. He doesn’t understand why Jaskier insists on washing Geralt and make sure he takes care of himself and he cannot for the life of him figure out why Jaskier’s moods seem to change as often as his outfit and as quick as the chords on his lute. He doesn’t know Jaskier’s heart speeds up at random or why he sometimes avoids Geralt when all he does at other times is cling to him like they’re glued together. He just cannot _read_ the man and

it

is

 _vexing_.

Jaskier lies by Geralt’s feet, head supported by rock Geralt is pretending to meditate on. He strums quietly at his lute, humming and scribbling in his songbook every so often. Geralt doesn’t know when he stopped trying to meditate but now he’s listening to Jaskier’s fingers tugging at the strings of the instrument and slowly weaving a sweet melody out of thin air. Geralt listens to his hums, coaxing music out of nothing. When he concentrates he can focus on the beating of the bard’s heart over the pouring rain outside the cave, subconsciously in rhythm with his half formed song.

“How about- Oh no I’m sure there’s one like that already. Maybe…The Daydreamer? What do you think Geralt?”

Almost, Geralt almost breaks his façade to reply with a hum of approval but catches himself just in time.

And then the bard’s breath hitches for a second before going back to normal as if the universe were amusing itself at his expense. “Oh, right. Right.” His heartbeat falters a little and Geralt almost opens his eyes to see why but it evens out. Gods he should just _ask_ but then Jaskier would know. That he listens, wonders. Cares.

“Witcher meditation,” he grumbles under his breath and Geralt is lucky Jaskier has turned his attention back to his music because he can’t quite bite back the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He wonders if Jaskier always talks to himself when he actually meditates.

For a while he indulges in his guilty pleasure but he decides it’s a pathetic thing and gets up to tend to the dying fire. “Oh Geralt you’re! I need your opinion on something how does ‘Love only in daydreams’ sound for a title.”

“Hmm.” Geralt nods.

“Right,” Jaskier grins, “Love only in daydreams it is.” He scribbles the title on the top of the page. “Thanks, Geralt.”

Jaskier’s heart speeds up a little and Geralt wants to rip it out of his companion’s chest and demand why it’s doing what it’s doing. He frowns at the image and instead wonders when his opinion started influencing Jaskier’s music. He tucks it away to mull over when he doesn’t have better things to do.

Geralt only really slips into meditation when the bard is deep in sleep.

When the day dawns the rain has let up and the smell of the rain-fresh forest fills the cave. They set out towards the road early, Jaskier chirping at Geralt who ignores him like the rest of the birds chattering in the trees. For the umpteenth time Geralt wonders why he _lets_ him.

“Why did we have to camp so far from the road?” he moans for the second time in as many minutes.

“It’s two and a half miles.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he grumbles.

They only mount their horses when they reach the roads, the bounce in Roach’s trot is testament to a good night’s rest. Geralt gives her pat on the neck. An affectionate gesture and reward for putting up with the bard and his equally affectionate chestnut gelding who are both always in her space.

“You give your horse more affection than your best friend,” Jaskier comments, amused.

“And who says you’re my best friend?” Geralt counters.

“Do you have any other friends who follow you around, keeping you good company and writing songs about you which improve your public image and earn you more contracts and income than you’ve ever had before? No, no I don’t think you do.”  
“Maybe Roach is my best friend.” It sounds pathetic even to Geralt’s ears even though he knows that for a long time, it was true.

Jaskier raises a skeptical brow, “If horses count then you have been alone too long.”

Geralt remembers the time before Jaskier had thrust himself upon the witcher, a time of blissful peace and quiet only filled with his regular one sided conversations with Roach. He doesn’t miss it as much as he used to.

“What, do you want a pat too?” Geralt asks, steering Roach closer to the gelding to give Jaskier a similar pat to the shoulder. “Feel better?”

“Actually, I do. Thank you, Geralt,” the bard says and Roach snorts at the same time Geralt does.

The next town is only half a day away, Geralt enjoys the absence of meaningless chatter which the bard has decided to fill with only a hum of his latest song. ‘Love only in daydreams’, Geralt remembers. The tune is bitter-sweet, he’s curious, curious to hear the words he’s heard being scribbled into his songbook but Jaskier hasn’t sung any. He finds himself wondering why, lately he’s been wondering a lot where Jaskier is concerned. It’s odd but Jaskier is a walking oddity so Geralt chalks it up to his infectious nature and leaves it at that before he admits something he doesn’t want to admit.

They reach the town a few hours before sunset. Jaskier books an inn while Geralt tends to the horses and soon they’re in the tavern, making use of their usual strategy. Geralt sits down at the bar, orders a pint and lets Jaskier entertain the crowd with songs of their adventures. It’s a wordless routine into which they have settled in the past few years while traipsing about here and there looking for contracts and crowds to entertain and spending their income on whatever their hearts desire.

Jaskier sings for the crowd, the timeless crowd pleaser ‘Toss a coin to your witcher’ loosens everyone’s pockets and gets them all singing along. By the time Jaskier sits down and orders a pint for himself he’s sung all his hits about the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia and his pockets are heavy with coin. Now they sit, waiting for anyone brave enough to approach with a contract.

It’s not long until Geralt has acquired 4 contracts, a drowner nest, a kikimora, a graveir and a ghoul plaguing the towns and farms nearby. He’s guaranteed to leave with a heavy coin purse. They have no schedule and no plans and the feeling of not knowing how long they were staying in the town and not having to worry about anything at all is a glorious feeling indeed.

***

The sun has long set and Geralt suspects it’s morning when they walk to the inn they booked down the street, Geralt is supporting a drunk bard, very amused at his own inability to walk straight.

“Geralt…” he giggles, “I haven’t been this drunk since… since _years_.” He throws out his arms, smacking Geralt in the face. The only reason Geralt doesn’t catch the arm before it hits him square in the face is because his hands are otherwise occupied supporting the Jaskier. And the _only_ reason he doesn’t _bite_ him, he tells himself, is because he’d have to explain the mark in the morning.

“Sorry,” Jaskier slurs, “didn’t want to ruin your gorgeous features.” Geralt is unsure whether his tone was mocking or serious. Jaskier slings a friendly arm over Geralt’s shoulder which makes it somewhat easier to support him. Geralt grabs both his wrists when he tries to pat Geralt on the head. This is how they walk the rest of the way down the street, Jaskier practically hanging on Geralt who has one hand holding the arm slung over his shoulder in place and the other around the minstrel’s waist. A few cats hiss at either Geralt or the noise and he’s sure there are plenty of people rolling over and covering their ears in their beds.

“Geralt you’re so handsome,” he sighs. Geralt is thankful for Jaskier’s drunkenness because he falters, unsure of what to say.

“So I’m told.” Geralt settles on and doesn’t know why he even bothers when Jaskier will likely not remember it in the morning.

“Really- really wasted on you when you only sleep with women. And in brothels too. Mean, you could have anyone without payment, really.” His voice rises and falls in the way reserved for the drunk and the dramatic. Jaskier was both. “Women get everything,” he grumbles.

“Not just women,” Geralt corrects him and now he’s supporting nearly all of Jaskier’s weight. He supposes it’s a bit cowardly of him to have this conversation while Jaskier is sloshed but there’s no-one to judge him but Geralt himself.

“ _Really_?” Jaskier exclaims loudly. “Well I haven’t had a man in forever. _You_ ,” he settles for patting Geralt’s chest with his dangling hand in accusation when he finds that he can’t jab a finger at him, “You’ve been scaring them all away, _brooding_ like that. Women tend to be braver than men when it comes to you, apparantly. Don’t know why. Very odd. Come to think of it, I haven’t slept with _anyone_ in _far_ too long.”

Something possessive relaxes in Geralt’s chest. “You’ve slept with men?” He asks, surprised.

“Well of course, no reason to be fussy with who you fool around with now is there? Pleasure is pleasure. And why rule out half the population when some of them look like, you know, like you.”

“Why indeed?” Geralt says for no one’s amusement but his own. Something stirs in his gut.

“Geralt,” sighs Jaskier, “this walk is awfully long, are we there soon?”

“Mhmm,” Geralt assures him. He hasn’t talked this much in months, it’s oddly pleasant.

“This is fun, I should get drunk more often,” Jaskier giggles. “Maybe you’ll carry me like a damsel in distress. That would be nice wouldn’t it? Nice being the object of the stone cold Witcher’s affections. Yes, yes.”

Geralt wonders how he can still joke when he’s this drunk.

As soon as they reach the stairs in the inn, Jaskier stumbles and falls heavily onto the staircase. Instead of getting up he lies groaning miserably on the stairs. Geralt winces to himself, he hopes he won’t have to explain any injuries in the morning. For a moment Geralt thinks about fetching a blanket and leaving him there but his newfound conscience, which is very annoying he might add, kicks him in his mental shin. And besides he’s never hear the end of it and he’s have to suffer the kicked puppy expression on Jaskier’s face which Geralt would never admit he found cute.

Geralt heaves him up again and with much childish protest, starts to climb the stairs. “Oh god, Geralt.” Jaskier braces a hand on the wall, clutching his stomach. “Going to be sick.”

“No no no no no,” Geralt says quickly, “Sit down, just sit.” Geralt has been in this town before and he knows it’s a gold mine. If Jaskier throw up now, they’d kick them out of the only inn in the whole town and that was unacceptable.

Jaskier sits, groaning. Geralt stands, fumbling and for lack of anything else to do sits beside him, awkwardly patting his back in what he hopes is a soothing manner. They’re sitting halfway up the staircase in the early hours of the morning, Geralt has lived for a long time but never has he been in this situation before.

Jaskier rests his forehead on his knees, moaning dramatically every once in a while. He goes quiet after a while, but he’s not quite unconscious. Finally, he turns his head, cheek rested in his knees, arms still hugging his legs.

“Am I your friend?” He asks, drunken cornflower blue eyes wide in childlike curiosity. If Geralt hadn’t known him, he’d have thought he looked almost innocent.

“You are,” Geralt admits for the first time. Jaskier lets out a “hm” that clearly means he’s surprised and that makes Geralt feel a little guilty for letting him believe he wasn’t for such a long time. Little does he know Geralt has long ago accepted that Jaskier had become a friend. He had only denied it because he didn’t want any ties. A stupid reason, Geralt realizes. Fate had always enjoyed proving him wrong.

Satisfied, Jaskier closes his eyes. “Come on,” Geralt says, “you can’t sleep on the stairs what are we paying for?”

Jaskier moans in protest. “Gods, why do you get to be pretty and muscly and gorgeous and not get drunk and embarrass yourself ever?” he ventures on to a different topic. Geralt doesn’t know whether the words are running together from drink or exhaustion or both. “S’really not fair, everyone should embarrass themselves. Stupid Witcher.”

“I don’t need to; you embarrass me plenty.”

Jaskier grumbles at that and then sighs rather melodramatically. “Geralt I think I’m in love,” he says dreamily and that thing in Geralt’s chest constricts again. 

“I’ll, uh, fetch you some water.” He gets up and as an afterthought he adds, “don’t throw up.” It doesn’t take long for him to find their room and locate the water skin, after all, Geralt is only _slightly_ drunk. When he returns from the room, water skin in hand, he finds the bard has passed out slumped against the wall. Geralt sighs. “At least you didn’t throw up,” he mutters to himself.

He heaves the limp body into his arms, it feels like holding water. Jaskier is feather light in his arms, small, limp body always threatening to slip out of Geralt’s grip like water escaping through his fingers, he’s sure there’s another deeper metaphor hidden in there somewhere but he doesn’t go looking.

He lays Jaskier down gently in the bed, stripping him down to his underthings like he usually sleeps when they have the luxury of a bed. Friend indeed. Geralt wonders when he came to care so much about his companion to be doing such things for him.

For a moment he allows himself to gaze at the sleeping features, so calm and peaceful. Geralt thinks how rare it is to see his features free of all emotion, when usually, being a very expressive person, Jaskier always has a smile or a frown or something in between on his face. He tucks away the image. Geralt has never appreciated the soft beauty in Jaskier.

He sleeps with a troubled mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier could never help himself...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IIIIII did iiiiittt!!! I posted a new chapter, be proud of me you guys be proud.

Jaskier wakes up with a pounding headache. He lifts his head from the pillows, squinting in the near noon sunlight, disoriented, and rolls over to find a jug on the nightstand, a piece of paper propped against it.

_Hunting kikimora_

_Back before sunset_

He sits up and peers into the jug. Water. After a few gulps of the blissfully cool water his headache begins to fade and he readies himself for the day, a day of peace and no brooding Geralt to distract him with his silent observation or just general… presence. A day of _productivity_.

His vision swims as he stands up but he quickly regains control of himself. Memories trickle back into his mind like a stream in drought, little by little. He muddles through his lost memories as he dresses and starts working but soon he sets the pieces of the night aside and makes use of his solitude.

He can’t remember much, a vague picture of sitting on the staircase. A foggy conversation. He hopes he didn’t say anything he shouldn’t have and focuses on his work instead. The sun makes its arc through the sky as Jaskier alternates between humming and working out the final chords on his lute and scratching violently on the paper.

The sun is shining low and warm, gentle shadows fall over the words on the paper;

_Love me or hate me, choose and liberate me from this hell_

_Of wondering, do you know I love you? Pray tell_

_Lovely Lady, release me from your spell_

_Pale white woman will you wish me well_

_When you send me on my way, when I have to say farewell?_

The song is complete. He is particularly proud of it, as one can only be about one’s work of art. He takes his chance to test the song on the melancholy afternoon crowd at the tavern, not wanting Geralt actually hearing it for fear that he might become suspicious about the apparent “maiden” the song was about, because the maiden in question has hair silver as moonlight and eyes golden as sunlight, she’s a quiet creature and prefers action over words, she is fierce as a wolf and Geralt was no idiot and he would certainly realize that the maiden was no maiden at all.

He knows very well that Geralt wasn’t born yesterday and if he heard the song he’d be balls deep in trouble because then Geralt would know. Jaskier is already ashamed of his indulgence enough as it is.

Geralt would know that the little bard who calls himself his friend is head over heels in love with him and lusting after him just like everyone else apparently. He’d be just another drop in the ocean that was Geralt’s admirers. What made Jaskier special was… absolutely nothing at this point.

Jaskier can imagine his reaction, he’d scoff, amused at the romantic minstrel whose fallen in love with the Witcher who is, ironically, famous for being incapable of love or any other feeling for that matter. He wouldn’t even deign him the honor of a proper laugh, he’d just walk away and leave him to his shame.

But Jaskier could never help himself. He couldn’t help it when he fell in love with the White Wolf, his travel companion, his _friend_. He couldn’t help himself when the lyrics of the song came to him, he couldn’t help but write it, compose it and he won’t be able to help pouring his heart out to Geralt when he asks about it.

At some point he _will_ ask about it and deep down Jaskier _knows_. He’s is sure Geralt can hear the way his breath catches when he looks at him sometimes or when their eyes lock, the way his heart beats faster. For gods’ sake he can probably _smell_ it on him. Jaskier know the day will come when Geralt asks, but still he lets himself tear down his bridges one by one and dig his grave a little deeper. He’s burning those bridges for momentary warmth, but still he doesn’t admit it even to himself and something foolish inside him pretends that he won’t be left cold and stranded in the end.

But for now he will be content to travel at his side and compose songs about the great Geralt of Rivia and suffer in silence. He will be content to love from afar until Geralt sends him away. It’s pathetic really, but it makes for a good song.

Something deflates in his chest when he thinks about it.

He sings it one last time, for practice he tells himself, before heading to the tavern to sing it to the sad saps who drink in the afternoons. They always like someone to share their sorrows with and Jaskier finds that the heartbroken are the most generous with their money. They don’t have much to live for after all.

****

Jaskier sings a few songs before he finally tests the new song on the crowd. They eat it up and he gets a few pitying glances from the women. He sits down at the bar, ordering himself a drink. The serving girl starts conversation while she cleans her cups.

“So,” she starts, she must be near Jaskier age. She’s pretty but her tone tells Jaskier she’s fishing for conversation to quell her boredom and not a bed fellow, she’s pretty enough to have one. “Who is this maiden after whom you’re pining?”

“Oh she’s a girl from a little village near Kaer Morhen. I come across her every once in a while, she travels a lot.” A lie so painfully close to the truth.

“Doesn’t she know you love her?” the woman asks, genuinely curious.

“I suspect she might.”

“That sounds like a tragic thing, doesn’t it,” she comments.

“Yes,” Jaskier says mournfully, “very tragic indeed. She’s either aware and indulging me tagging along with her every once in a while or she’s completely unaware of my infatuation. Either way she has no fondness for me. I suppose she just tolerates me.” Jaskier swirls the liquid in his cup, staring the little whirlpool.

“Well,” the girl says cheerfully, “maybe you’ll find your soulmate.”

“I think she _is_ my soulmate,” Jaskier sighs before continuing, “but I am not hers.” The girl frowns.

“Perhaps,” she says, “but perhaps she’s a bit oblivious. You shouldn’t give up hope without trying.”

Jaskier smiles at the kind woman. “Thank you,” he says sincerely even though he won’t be doing that at all. She gives him a comforting touch before she hurries off to listen to another poor sod’s story and he realizes that he’s qualifies as a poor sod. He finishes his drink and picks up his lute, determined to change the mood.

When Geralt finally trudges through the door, the first of the regular evening crowd are already singing along cheerfully or chattering away with each other and Jaskier is proud to have them all participating, the warm feeling fades quickly when he spots the Witcher.

Geralt is filthy and wet, Jaskier stops mid-song. Something shifts like the last piece of a puzzle finally locking into place and suddenly Jaskier _remembers_.

_Geralt you’re so handsome_

And

_Not just women_

And

_Why do you get to be pretty and muscly and gorgeous…_

And ooooh fuck.

Geralt scans the crowded tavern for Jaskier, he finds him in less than a seond and locks eyes with him. Jaskier swallows.

“Geralt!” he exclaims, hoping he doesn’t sound hysteric. “It’s almost sundown I was starting to worry. Look at you, you’re soaking, you might catch a cold.” Geralt hums, stripping off his satchel of potions and Witcher necessities. “Are you alright? What you need is a warm bath.” Jaskier starts fussing over him like he always does, but this time using proximity to hide his expression from Geralt’s all-knowing sight because he _said that_.

“What I need is my money and a drink,” Geralt says, grudgingly tolerating Jaskier patting him down, looking for injuries. He looks tired. Jaskier sees a few wide eyes all belonging to people ranging from middle aged to elderly. They are expecting something, expecting Geralt to break his hands, decapitate him, something. Because the last time Geralt visited this town he probably would have.

Jaskier finishes his fretting, Geralt lets him and waits until he finishes, it’s a routine and by now and Geralt has learned by now to just let Jaskier finish before he collects his payment from one of the staring men. The man doesn’t demand proof, just says his thanks and hands over the bag of coin. Geralt nods to him. Old acquaintances then.

Jaskier buys a flask of liquor to take with him to the inn for Geralt to drink while he bathes. The same girl he’d talked to hands it to him. She looks from Jaskier to Geralt and back to Jaskier. She says nothing but she _knows_ and he trusts the girl to keep her mouth shut but the fact that she had put the pieces together so quickly has Jaskier wondering how obvious he’s being. Maybe he wouldn’t have all that much time left before Geralt puts the pieces of it all together himself.

For gods’ sake he probably already has because Jaskier called him handsome and told him it’s a shame he didn’t sleep with men. Didn’t sleep with him. But then Geralt told him he does and gods didn’t that just make it worse? Geralt didn’t want him.

His heart drops into his stomach.

***

Geralt is quiet, taking gulps of alcohol every once in a while as Jaskier washes his arms and chest. Jaskier takes quiet pleasure in getting to touch Geralt, after all it’s probably as much as he’ll ever get to touch him. Once again, Jaskier is painfully aware that he’s digging his grave deeper by indulging in bathing Geralt and once again he can’t bring himself to stop.

He waits for Geralt to say something, sure that he wants to. Or maybe he doesn’t care.

“Geralt,” he starts as he moves the Witcher to wash his back.

“Hmm?”

“Can I ask you something about your meditating?”

“Hmm.” Jaskier takes that as a yes.

“Can you hear me? When I talk to you while you’re meditating?”

“No,” Geralt says simply and Jaskier assumes it’s the end of it. “I can sense when there is a threat nearby. All my senses shut down save for the base instincts that wake me up when I’m in danger.”

“Interesting,” Jaskier comments. Geralt is quiet for a minute, Jaskier tips his head back and pours a jug of warm water over his hair before lathering soap into the dirty strands.

“Do you talk to me?” He asks then.

Jaskier debates his answer. “Sometimes.” He’s fucked anyway, deeper graves don’t hurt when you’re already dead.

“Why?” Geralt’s voice is flat, a product of years of succumbing to people’s assumptions of his absence if emotions.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier answers truthfully, “I hate the quiet. Sometimes it feels like you’re not really there anymore and I don’t like that. I suppose it’ my way of holding on to you.”

Geralt hums and the sound is not quite as… empty as usual.

He knows.

***

After his bath Geralt disappears to the tavern to inquire about the location of the drowner nest. Jaskier takes off his boots and jerkin and climbs otherwise fully clothed into the bed but waits until Geralt returns before he even tries to sleep, he’s gotten used to Geralt’s steady presence when he falls asleep. Geralt would wake him up just to reprimand him for sleeping with an unlocked door anyway. Jaskier picks up his lute, he hums some of his favorite songs.

Inevitably he ends up quietly singing his latest song and of course Geralt enters when he’s in the middle of it.

“Lovely Lady, release me from your spell

Pale w-“

Jaskier stops and puts the lute down somewhat abrubtly and snuggles into the blankets, ready to close his eyes and pray Geralt leaves him be, but Geralt speaks before he can fall asleep.

“Who is the lady you sing of?” Geralt while he removes his layers.

“What lady?” Jaskier’s heart is beating rapidly and he’s sure Geralt can hear it. This is it.

“The lady in your song?” Geralt stops undressing, he’s rid of his armor, only his dark blue undershirt still covers his chest from view.

“What song,” Jaskier says stupidly.

Geralt cocks his head. “The one you were singing.” _Obviously_ , he doesn’t need to add.

“You heard that?”

Geralt taps his ear, “Witcher hearing.” Just Jaskier’s luck. Geralt still waits for an answer.

“Why do you ask?” he deflects instead.

Geralt shrugs “You’ve never talked about her.” Some useless part of Jaskier’s brain decides that the fact that Geralt actually _listens_ when he talks is very noteworthy but it’s not enough to distract him from his inevitable heartbreak. He’s putting the pieces together now.

Oh gods, Jaskier can see the air around the witcher changing. He can see in Geralt’s eyes the moment something tips over the edge.

“You would have wouldn’t you?” It tenses between them as Geralt’s tone changes from casual interest to a curiosity that is slightly… unhinged. Jaskier is reminded of a cat playing with its terrified dinner. The tilt of his head is predatory.

Is he rubbing salt into the wound. How cruel of him.

“You’ve been travelling with me for months.” He stalks closer to Jaskier, his shadow falls over Jaskier, blocking out the candlelight. “You haven’t met any woman.” He braces his arms on the mattress, leaning over Jaskier. “You don’t _invent_ your muses, you never have.” There’s something in his feline eyes that confirms that he can _hear_ Jaskier’s rapid pulse, _smell_ his terror. “Who is she.” His tone is quietly demanding and _lethal_. Deathly calm before the storm.

“Why?” Jaskier is playing with fire. He’ll get burned either way. “That’s none of your business.”

The storm hits. Geralt growls, pupils thinning, and throws his hands up, he turns faster than lightning, pacing up and down the small room. “What is it?” he demands. “Your heart. Your heart speeds up and your breath catches when you see me but you’re not _afraid_. No you’re never afraid and when you _are_ ,” he stops, staring at him in snake like stillness, ”it’s- there’s nothing to be afraid of and then suddenly I can smell terror. And there’s something else. I’ve never seen it before and it’s _bloody annoying_! What is it?”

Jaskier doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t he know?

Suddenly he calms and looks away. “You’re afraid of me now.” A statement. False.

“No.” Jaskier isn’t afraid, not of him.

Geralt scoffs. “I can smell it, I’m a Witcher for heaven’s sake and they don’t let me forget it.” The words hang between them, waiting for Jaskier to prove him otherwise.

He doesn’t even know.

Jaskier doesn’t know where the bravery comes from or if it’s just capitulation, surrender. “I’m not afraid of you.” He shrugs off the blanket and crawls to sit at the edge of the bed nearest to Geralt. He waits for Geralt, knowing how this conversation ends.

“And why not? Maybe you should be.” Geralt walks to the fireplace, his back toward Jaskier and presses his brow to the wall above it. “You,” he begins slowly, “you are a puzzle, a paradox. You defy everything you’re supposed to be, _I don’t understand._ ” Geralt turns and there is something close to pure anguish tormenting his features. Jaskiers heart clenches in his chest.

He doesn’t understand. Of course. Of course Geralt would _know_ , _notice_ and still not _understand_ , wouldn’t see blatant adoration if it was staring him in the face. Of course he’d have to go and make this so much worse for Jaskier.

Geralt never even realized that Jaskier was in _love_ with him. Didn’t even know what it was. He didn’t know how to love and gods and how to be loved, and it made Jaskier angry. Angry that Geralt was so oblivious, so emotionless and conforming to everything people said about him, letting their rumors mold the truth. Angry that Geralt had never let himself feel, learn and understand the human part of himself.

Angry at the world for hurting the witcher who had believed he had no choice but to take the pain.

“Really?” Jaskier’s tone is low and frustrated, angry tears pooling in his eyes. “You really didn’t know?” he demands. Geralt says nothing, staring into the flames again. He shouldn’t be angry at Geralt. He _isn’t_.

“If I did, I wouldn’t ask would I?” Sarcasm drips from his tongue. Jaskier scoffs.

Geralt strides across the room to lean over Jaskier, grabbing him by the front of the thin shirt he was wearing. He pins him with a fiery gaze that should have made Jaskier cower under the blanket but instead, bright blue meet gold, ice meets fire. Ironic how Jaskier had always been warm to Geralt’s cold.

The tension between them is charged with something that feels like lightning before thunder.

Geralt’s eyes are glowing embers in the dim light of the candle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do leave kudos and comments for the motivation if you will :))


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was feeling creative so I finished it and a lovely darling on tumblr convinced me to post it. (My tumblr is thewitcherssongbird) so here you go!

In typical Jaskier fashion, the fiery artist meets Geralt’s glare with his own. Were it not for his cursed Witcher eyes, Geralt wouldn’t have noticed the nearly imperceptible movements of Jaskier’s eyes, flickering downward only for a second. Geralt unconsciously mirrors the movement, eyes flickerin down to Jaskier’s mouth.  
And then, for some inexplicable reason, some urge Geralt hadn’t even noticed until now… Before he can even form a second thought he closes the distance between them until his lips are on Jaskier’s and all his thoughts fly out of his head until the only thing left is Jaskier.  
This is the moment it hits Geralt, hits him like ton of bricks to the head. This is what he wants, this is why he’s so obsessed with Jaskier. It feels like his purpose, this is why he’s here, now, with Jaskier. Like destiny had been nudging him closer, closer until it gave up being subtle and shoved his face into Jaskier’s…  
But Jaskier isn’t moving. Geralt’s mind jumps back to where it belongs. He’s made a mistake. His thoughts come rushing back into his head, he steps away, letting go of Jaskier’s shirt. Jaskier’s eyes open slowly, blinking stupidly as he stares at nothing in particular and then moves his focus to Geralt. He’s sure his expression is almost a mirror of Jaskier’s, plain shock. But Geralt feels something he hasn’t felt in a long time: cold terror.  
Geralt backs away, hand grabbing blindly for something, it finds purchase on the just-polished silver sword propped against the wall next to the door. Geralt clutches it like a lifeline, grabs it because it’s the only thing making sense right now, the only constant in his life nowadays and he needs to go do something.  
***  
Geralt had only taken his sword. It was the stupidest, rashest decision he’d made in a long time to leave his armor and healing potions behind but in the heat of his frustration and confusion he can’t bring himself to care. He doesn’t know what to do now, he’d made a mistake, Jaskier was going to leave and for the first time, he admitted to himself that he really didn’t want him to. Jaskier was his friend. His only friend in a cruel world of hatred and prejudice.  
There’s not enough space in Geralt’s chest for his heart and it sits in his throat instead, choking him.   
He tries not to let the thoughts come but he fails miserably. He was the monster falling in love with the prince and in his arrogance he’d never thought it possible. He was in love with Jaskier and now that he knew there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He was the dusty rock admiring the beautiful flower, the pale moon admiring the blinding bright sun. Geralt only shone because of the light Jaskier gave him, what Jaskier gave him was more than he deserved and it was pathetic to want even more. Jaskier didn’t love him and he wasn’t obligated to.  
But he is in love with Jaskier.  
He strides in the direction of the swamp and downs the single potion he always keeps in his pocket only to distract himself. His senses sharpen, he hears the chatter in the tavern, the lewd sounds from the whorehouse and a cat torturing it’s dinner as he stalks the street, silver glinting dangerously in the dim light of the moon. The potion is a relief, cold water on a hot day and Geralt embraces the calm that comes with the killing.   
He lets the emotions eddy away in the presence of the power that the potion grants.  
He catches a glance of his reflection in a window as he passes by silently, a glance of eyes swallowed in black, dark veins framing the black orbs. Pale white hair near glowing in the moonlight, matching the blade like a sister.  
He keeps walking, refusing to think. Town turns into flat field and fields eventually thicken into overgrown swamp, Geralt’s boots squelch in the wetness. He heads in the direction he’d been given, forced calm drowning all sense of time.   
It’s only when he can sense the writhing nest of drowners nearby, hissing and snarling monstrously and gouging themselves on fish that he stops short and suddenly his rational thought catches up with him.   
He deflates, fear and angry frustration bleed out of his body and the insistent thoughts come prying in again.  
Is he really this stupid, this suicidal all because of something that happened to hundreds of people every day? He’d made a common mistake. He might very well die if he goes after the drowners unprepared, armor-less and with no backup potion and only a blade to defend himself with.   
His heart is a lump in his throat, threatening to choke him.  
He sighs, muscles going limp. He stares at a stray frog. He sits on a dry looking stump and looks to the frog for help. It croaks very unhelpfully.  
Is he going to gamble his life like a coward instead of facing Jaskier and fucking apologizing like any decent person? He’s been an idiot for not realizing that Jaskier had never irritated him as much as he pretended and he never meant it when he said “go away” because gods damn him but he didn’t want Jaskier to go away. What he wanted right now was for Jaskier to stay and chatter in his damn ear.  
Who was he fooling anyway? He’d been bottling up his fascination, taking it out to play with it and then tucking it back into his mind before he had a chance to satisfy his curiosity, adding a droplet to his growing frustration every time he did. It had been a casual thing in the beginning but droplets eventually added up to dams and Geralt’s dam had finally broken.   
Geralt had crossed a line. Jaskier had every right to hate him now and he would deserve it for being a miserable companion and a horrid friend.  
Jaskier was the water running rapidly through his fingers before Geralt had even realized he was thirsty, slipping away before Geralt even realized he wanted him. Jaskier would leave but Geralt still owed him an apology.  
And now, in his increasingly frequent stupidity, he’d abandoned all rational thought and sense of self preservation. He’d let his emotions drown out any and all sense, something he’d been trained to avoid at all costs. All he has is his silver sword and the single potion he’d downed. He will most likely lose his friend and now he decides to throw his life away in the process too? The frog is right; he is an idiot.  
Geralt sighs to himself and turns, making his way back to the inn. He wishes he had at least thought to bring his sheath, his sword hangs uselessly in his grip, pathetic without its purpose. Geralt dreads the oncoming conversation, dreads facing Jaskier with the potion still in effect but he has no other place to go where people wouldn’t be terrified of his appearance. Jaskier is the only one who won’t scream in terror, another crack tears into Geralt’s already stupidly fragile heart.  
He pauses at the window he’d glimpsed himself in earlier. He’d never cared what he looked like when he was hunting but now all of a sudden his heart felt heavy in his chest.   
It takes a monster to kill a monster he thinks as he takes in the dark veins around the black holes that were currently serving as eyes, pale hair so unnaturally white. White as death.   
He sees the deathly sharp sword glinting in promise of a quick death, held loosely in the hand that had killed more people than he cared to count and averts his eyes, trying to swallow the miserable emotions that have been running rampant the past few months.  
Jaskier’ eyes are closed when Geralt returns, long lashes casting gentle shadows on his skin. He guesses it’s been at least an hour since his...outburst but his heart jumps in his chest because Jaskier is still there.  
He can tell that the bard isn’t asleep, he’s had a long time to learn the pattern of his soft breaths and the rhythm of his heart. He doesn’t open his eyes, ignoring him.  
He deserves it.  
“Jaskier…” Geralt starts stupidly. He stumbles over anything he might have said. He stands at the edge of the bed, Jaskier is curled up on the other side. “I’m sorry,” he sighs.   
It’s a horrid apology, but Geralt is no poet. It’s the first time he’s genuinely apologized to anybody in years and he hopes that counts for something. Jaskier exhales heavily onto the linen and cracks open his eyes but doesn’t look at him.   
Geralt has an urge to pull the bard into his lap and hold him until all the pieces are put back together, but he doubts Jaskier would let him. That is if he let himself. He runs a hand through his hair, trying his best to look anywhere other than Jaskier and continues, “I just- “  
He just what? Geralt doesn’t even know why he did what he did.  
“I’m sorry. About what happened. You have every right to be mad at me, you should despise me. Or be afraid of me, I don’t know, but what I’m saying is I won’t stop you if you leave but…”  
He considers his next words carefully but still he has no idea what effect they will have. No idea what the right thing to say is and no idea what Jaskier wants to hear.  
“But I… I though you should know that I never wanted you gone when I said I did and every insult was a lie. I don’t… I have no idea how this even works because,” he chuckles a bit hysterically, “because, gods this never happens.”  
Jaskier opens his eyes but only stares at the linen. “What never happens,” he asks… angrily? Sadly? Geralt can’t tell because the man is a fucking riddle with too many possible answers.  
Geralt gestures wildly because honestly, he doesn’t know what.  
Jaskier shuffles around under the feather blanket until finally he settles on sitting cross legged on the edge of the bed, facing Geralt with the blanket around his shoulders and pooling in his lap, chewing on his lip.   
It makes him look so fucking fragile, as if Geralt’s heart isn’t in enough pieces already and his guilt isn’t choking him. He looks like a little bird, fragile and indescribably precious.  
Geralt drops his arms uselessly at his sides.  
“I don’t know how to read you,” he admits. “I don’t know why… if you like me, or why you follow me everywhere because I know I’m a real bastard. I’m not very kind and I’m only good for stories but I know you can get the stories elsewhere or make them up yourself. I don’t know why you want to be around me or do things for me or fix my tattered reputation because the only thing you get out of all this is the money you earn and me. I just don’t understand.”  
He stares at Jaskier’s hands and Jaskier stares at Geralt’s boots, both too cowardly to meet each other’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”  
Finally Jaskier looks into his eyes, still black and ringed by dark veins. “Did you want to?”  
“Want to what?”  
“Kiss me?” he explains bluntly.  
Geralt tilts his head, looking at his lips and says, “I want to kiss you now.”   
He winces just as the words are out of his mouth. It was probably the worst possible thing to say, but it’s true. It’s so fucking true.   
“Gods fucking damn it, Geralt. What the hell?”  
“Sorry” is only halfway out of his mouth when Jaskier throws off the blanket and lunges for Geralt, grabs him by the shoulder and the neck and kisses him square on the lips without an ounce of hesitation and this time Geralt just lets himself be kissed.   
He instinctively catches Jaskier in his arms, holding him so close he isn’t sure Jaskier can breathe. He’s standing on Geralt’s boots, the witcher notices, even with the added height, Geralt still has to lean down to keep kissing him and it makes his knees buckle because Jaskier is so small.  
“You’re so fucking hot when you drink that potion.” The words are a murmur in Geralt’s mouth, little pauses in between kisses.  
“What is happening?” Geralt asks, Jaskier on his tongue.  
“‘M kissing you.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I’ve wanted to kiss you for far too long.” Geralt groans into Jaskier’s mouth and Jaskier removes his grip from Geralt’s shoulder to press his palm to Geralt’s chest to feel the vibrations.  
Jaskier wastes no time skimming his tongue over Geralt’s lips, Geralt takes it as an invitation and with his own tongue, he gently mirrors Jaskier’s action and is immediately granted entrance. He sighs into Jaskier’s mouth and Jaskier replies with a pleased sound somewhere between a sigh and a whine.  
Kissing Jaskier feels like coming home.  
Jaskier’s fingers move slowly the cup Geralt’s cheekbone and brush a thumb over still dark veins.  
“You’re beautiful like this. You’re beautiful all the time.”   
“Is that what you think?” he asks for no reason but Jaskier hums into his mouth anyway. “I still don’t understand.”  
Geralt thinks he’s delirious.  
“Stupid witcher.” It’s a mumble in Geralt’s mouth. He notices that Jaskier is standing on his steel toes of his shoes, too short to reach him otherwise and the fact makes his knees buckle.   
“Quite,” he agrees, “I need an explanation.” Jaskier hums.  
Geralt walks them back to the bed, Jaskier’s bare feet still on top of his boot clad ones. Jaskier lets himself fall onto the soft covers, pulling Geralt with him, in his addled state he barely manages to keep himself from falling on top of the bard by bracing himself with an elbow next to Jaskier’s head.   
His other hand goes to Jaskier’s side. He feels the fabric of the shirt Jaskier is wearing and abselntly tugs it loose from where it’s tucked into Jaskier’s trousers. His hand hovers there, asking permission before Jaskier presses Geralt’s hand flat to the smooth skin of his abdomen. Geralt marvels at the softness of the bard’s stomach, his sides.  
“Been wanting you to do things to me when you’re like this since I first saw you drink it.” Geralt’s knees nearly buckle at the knowledge of what went on in Jaskier’s head. Better, so much better, than what he had expected.  
At some point Jaskier needs air. Geralt leans his brow to Jaskier’s as the bard breathes, he barely notices that he’s still half off the bed, supported only by his elbow.   
“What are we doing?”   
Jaskier strokes his palm over Geralt’s jaw and then moves to tangle his fingers in his hair. Jaskier’s eyelids flutter, caught between open and closed. “I don’t know,” the bard admits softly, “but I don’t want to stop.”  
“No,” Geralt agrees and moves them properly onto the inn bed. Jaskier pulls Geralt back to him to kiss him in that firm manner that reminds Geralt of the way he looks at him when he blatantly orders Geralt to sit down and eat before he runs off on the next hunt.  
Geralt moans in something close to pain and pulls away. “But we have to.” He doesn’t move off of Jaskier though, only presses his brow to Jaskier’s and strokes his thumb over Jaskier’s side, under the thin shirt that’s been in his way for far too long.   
“You don’t- You don’t want to?” he asks in a painfully small voice that has Geralt’s entire chest twist.  
“Fuck, Jaskier. You can’t possibly know how much I want to but I’ve never done anything like this while the potion is still working and I don’t want to hurt you. And I’d honestly like to know what’s going on because I am very confused.”  
Geralt kisses him softly, lips lingering. He moves to lie down, facing Jaskier. “What if this is all another dream?”  
Jaskier’s wide bluebells peer at Geralt in something like adoration, Geralt can’t name it and he’s sure that the reason for that is because he’s never had anyone who looked at him like that. He’s sure the expression on his own face is one of pure wonder at the sheer beauty of Jaskier.  
“You dream about me?” asks the most beautiful person Geralt has ever seen in his entire stretched existence.  
“How could I not?” he answers and Jaskier’s eyes shine with silver.  
“You like me…” Jaskier whispers and giggles.  
“You’re delirious and sleep deprived.” Geralt grins.  
“You like me,” he repeats.  
“Yes,” Geralt whispers seriously. “I think I’m in love with you.” He tilts Jaskier’s chin up and gazes into his eyes, impossibly detailed in the effects of the potion.  
“You’re not getting rid of my erection by being sappy you know,” he says in an effort to move to lighter conversation, Geralt suspects it’s only for his benefit.  
“It’s not working for me either,” he admits but tangles their legs together like he knows Jaskier wants to judging by his glances and little fidgets. He tugs Jaskier into his embrace, still not sure if it’s real but he takes what he can get when he has the chance. The way Jaskier nestles into Geralt’s chest has his heart flutter in his chest in a way it’s not really supposed to but Geralt is beyond caring. If he wakes up with an aching heart he supposes it will be worth it.   
“We’ll figure it out tomorrow? When the potion has worn off?” he asks and for some reason Geralt’;s heart melts.  
“I hope so.”  
“I’ll dream of you,” Jaskier promises.  
“Whether I want to or no I think I’ll be dreaming of you too.”  
“What will you dream?” The question makes Geralt painfully aware of the hardness in his trousers again. He grinds his erection into Jaskier’s in answer and relishes the mewl he emits.  
“That isn’t fair,” Jaskier complains mournfully, gripping a handful of Geralt’s shirt as if it will anchor him.  
“No it isn’t,” Geralt agrees with a roguish grin Jaskier can’t see from where he is pressed into Geralt’s chest, “but we can’t. You better explain yourself tomorrow.”  
Jaskier scoffs at the playful order. “The same goes for you.” Geralt hums.  
Jaskier whines in capitulation but says, “If you don’t finish what we started tomorrow I’ll kill you,” he whispers before he relaxes in Geralt’s arms.   
“If I don’t get to fuck you tomorrow I think I’ll die.” Jaskier squirms at the coarse term.  
“At my hands,” he says.  
“Of course,” he indulges, because Geralt is pretty sure he’d let Jaskier kill him and more if he only asked with those cornflower blue eyes of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading please leave kudos and comments! Because I eat, live and breathe attention apparantly :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. This is It. This is the part we've been waiting for. Here comes the smut ya'll!

Jaskier wakes up warm. His pillow feels… hard. He opens his eyes to a face full of _Geralt_. Jaskier’s cheek is pressed to Geralt’s naked chest, rising and falling with the Witcher’s breaths. Geralt is asleep, one arm over Jaskier who has been his chest as a pillow.

Jaskier tries to shake off the unlikely dream of waking up sleep-warm next to Geralt who is _still_ _asleep_. He doesn’t wake up though, the dream doesn’t fade, and the Geralt in the bed stays where he is.

Suddenly he remembers rather lovely and vivid dream of Geralt’s tongue in his mouth. And then a view blurry ones that are no doubt the cause of his morning wood. Jaskier moves and feels Geralt’s own morning wood pressing insistently to his thigh and suddenly he remembers that there was never any vivid dream at all.

He tries to sit up, staring open mouthed at Geralt who resorts to tug Jaskier closer by the waist even in his subconscious state.

The world stops, his thoughts are non-existent, gone. The world starts again and Jaskier does the only thing he can think of doing and smacks Geralt on the chest. Geralt is up immediately, a hand on Jaskier’s throat but the young man is having none of that and removes it, annoyed, never mind rude awakenings he wants to know what happened last night. Geralt relaxes, eyelids drooping closed as he groans in annoyance and settles back into the pillows and curls up on his side against the chill.

Jaskier wants to demand he wake up and explain himself but he can’t quite bring himself to break the quiet.

Jaskier has never seen Geralt waking up before. Geralt is bathed in morning sun, it seeps into his skin and makes him _glow_. He has one arm under the pillow and the other still in Jaskier’s lap where it had fallen when Jaskier sat up, he’s nestled into the blanket like a cat. His hair is a mess, wayward strands falling over his face and his shoulders. His lashes fan over his cheeks and he looks almost delicate in the space between sleep and awareness. Even though he’d nearly choked Jaskier a minute ago, he looks _vulnerable_.

Oh. This is why Geralt never sleeps.

Jaskier doesn’t try again, having changed his mind he lies down again and turns his head. Golden eyes are open, blinking blearily at him. _Beautiful_ is all Jaskier thinks, he’s sure he’s staring. Jaskier’s brain is evidently not awake yet, on instinct, he cups Geralt’s jaw and pulls him into a kiss.

Jaskier kisses the half-conscious Witcher morning breath and all. Geralt only responds in kissing him back, not even trying to take the lead. Definitely still half asleep.

“Not a dream then,” he concludes.

“No I don’t think so.” Geralt’s morning voice is raspier than usual, barely more than a whisper. His eyelids still look heavy.

“You like me,” Geralt says dumbly, smiling a little idiotically. Jaskier likes Geralt when he’s sleepy.

“No Geralt I just asked you to fuck me because that’s what friends do,” Jaskier says but the sarcasm loses its bite through his smile.

“No, you _like_ me,” Geralt says again, sleep stupid smile fading to leave only confusion. He sits up, braced on his elbows. “You like me?”

Gods, this man.

“Yes, gods Geralt.” Jaskier sighs and climbs onto Geralt’s lap and golden Witcher eyes look up at him through his lashes. He speaks before he loses his nerve. “I thought it was obvious, what with all the staring and the you know, breath catching and heart… pounding going on.” Jaskier paws at Geralt’s naked chest for lack of anything better to do with his hands. “Thought you knew… Or maybe you’d realize it any day and then you’d just _leave_ me. But apparently you’re as _dense_ as a rock.” Geralt’s brow furrows in confusion as his palms absently come to rest on Jaskier’s thighs. Jaskier thinks he squeaks.

“Where’d your shirt go?” Jaskier adds to his ramble, hyper-aware of Geralt’s palms now.

“It bothered you so I took it off,” Geralt says, still looking like he was trying to make sense of an odd dream. Jaskier touches a hand to his cheek, a phantom memory of the scratchy shirt lingers under his fingertips.

“You want me?” he whispers and Jaskier rolls his eyes, Geralt isn’t laughing at him, Geralt is in fucking shock. Had he really never thought it was possible. “Why the _hell_?” He says as if the very idea is outrageous. “I never thought- “

“Yes, gods Geralt. I like you and I want you. _Facts_. I’m almost concerned. Did you hit your head?” He stole Geralt’s line.

“But I need to know why,” he insists and Jaskier sighs and shrugs helplessly.

“I don’t _know_ Geralt,” he whines childishly, he stares at his hands fidgeting on Geralt’s abdomen. ”Maybe I just liked the way you let me do things and fret over you and take care of you, and maybe I like that you take care about me. Maybe I like the way you pretend you don’t fucking give a shit even though you really do. Maybe I like the way you look at me when I talk and maybe I like it when you tell me to shut up. Maybe I like the way you lean your elbow on my shoulder like I’m your personal armrest. Maybe I like that hum that you do all the time. Maybe I like your voice and your hair and your stupid muscles and your _face_ and your eyes and your hands. Oh god your _hands_. Maybe I like the way you look when you drink that Witcher potion and the way you sound when you growl like that. Maybe I just like you for a lot of reasons?”

“Maybe?” Geralt asks and it’s only now that Jaskier notices the hand on his thigh.

“No,” he whispers so quiet only a witcher could hear, “fuck ‘maybe’.” Geralt’s hand moves infinitesimally higher, closer and his breath catches. Geralt touches a finger to his throat, feeling the breath caught there. Jaskier swallows, adam’s-apple bobbing against his sword calloused palm. “I know what that means now.”

“It means I think you’re beautiful,” he blurts, Geralt tears his gaze from the hand he rests on Jaskier’s thigh and looks him in the eyes. “You’ve never been called that before?”

“Once or twice… It was never true.” Jaskier’s heart twists for Geralt. He pictures a cruel scientist gazing into his cat eyes and calling them “beautiful” in morbid fascination.

“It’s true,” he says firmly, no ambiguity, but he can see the pain in Geralt’s eyes and changes the subject.

“You know what this means.” He covers Geralt’s palm with his own. “Do you know what this means?” He guides the hand down his throat, his chest, down until Geralt’s palm is resting just above the arousal in his trousers. He lets Geralt decide what to do with what he’s been offered.

“Hmm, what does it mean?” Geralt asks, voice low. He brushes his knucked over the tent in Jaskier’s trousers and he moves his hand to the very top of Jaskier’s thigh. His thumb starts stroking, so close to Jaskier’s cock and yet so far away. “It means keep your promise or I’ll keep mine. Fuck me or I’ll murder you.”

“Well we can’t have that. The fun has just started.” He bares his teeth in a roguish grin and places his palm on Jaskier’s desperate bulge. The bard groans, moving to support himself with an elbow above Geralt. The witcher palms his cock and Jaskier whines and bites his lip, hand fisting on Geralt’s abdomen.

Geralt cups Jaskier’s jaw, lifting it to make Jaskier look at him. He pulls Jaskier’s lip from his teeth with a thumb and Jaskier lets out a broken sigh, panting.

“This needs to come off,” Geralt says, removing his hand from Jaskier’s erection to tug at his shirt. Jaskier briefly mourns the loss of Geralt’s touch where he wants it but he’s never removed his shirt faster. Geralt flips them, straddling Jaskier. He skims his fingers under Jaskier’s waistband in a way that has him squirming, before he finally plunges his tongue into the wet heat of Jaskier’s mouth. Tonguing at teeth and licking at soft lips, he unlaces Jaskier’s trousers.

In an effort of teamwork, they manage to lose all their clothes until they’re skin to skin, sweat slicking the slide of body to body. Jaskier is squirming beneath Geralt, pent up frustration finally making itself known. Geralt’s kisses form a trail from Jaskier’s mouth, over his jaw and then his throat as Jaskier bares it to Geralt. Geralt places slides his tongue over Jaskier’s racing pulse.

“I love this,” he whispers. Jaskier is too far gone to form a reply but he doesn’t need to because Geralt continues his trail, down his chest, his stomach, he stops right over Jaskier’s cock and Jaskier has to remove the arm he’d slung over his eyes to ask Geralt what on earth he is doing but the expression on Geralt’s handsome face makes the words get stuck in his throat.

“Do you- do you really want me to?” the Witcher asks in the smallest voice Jaskier has ever heard him say anything in and it makes his heart _ache_ for Geralt. He takes Geralt’s face in his hands and plants a kiss on his forehead. It says I love you, it says I want you and I need you and it says _I trust you_.

“Yes,” he whispers, “I trust you. I want you to do everything and I want to do everything for you. With you. Because I love you. You’re my best friend, and _I’m in love with you_ ,” Jaskier hopes the things he can’t say are written in his eyes. Geralt’s golden eyes are turned to suns in the morning rays, they’re are shining with something that couldn’t be described as anything other than adoration. “Never doubt that.”

It’s what Geralt needs to hear apparently because he kisses Jaskier then.

And then, not breaking eye contact, he takes Jaskier into his mouth. The sound Jaskier makes is one that he will deny making until his dying day but it encourages Geralt, who apparently, has no gag reflex at all. Fucking Witchers, Jaskier thinks. His hands fist in the sheets, knuckles going white as he shouts his pleasure to the ceiling.

“ _Gods fuck_ -“ he chokes out and grabs onto Geralt’s hair. He doesn’t seem to mind, humming in pleasure and the vibrations send waves of pleasure over his skin. He doesn’t guide him, just holds on for dear fucking life.

He thinks he has goosebumps. “Fuck- Geralt,” the words hardly make it out of his mouth as such, nearly turning to moans. No-one’s mouth has ever felt this good, Jaskier thinks he might need to tell Geralt that but right now he’s rather preoccupied focusing on not coming right down his throat.

“I can’t- Geralt I can’t hold on you need to stop right now or else-“ he rambles. Geralt does as he asks and Jaskier whines as his cock slips out of Geralt’s mouth, he’s never seen anything more obscene. Geralt’s eyes are lidded in pleasure.

“ _How_ ,” he asks, “How the fuck do you do that?’ Jaskier kisses the smirk right off of Geralt’s mouth. He gets a bit carried away and slips his mouth to Geralt’s neck, kissing and licking at the smooth skin there, he finds a spot right under Geralt’s ear, when he runs his tongue over it Geralt groans deeply and grabs onto Jaskier’s thigh as if he’s lost his balance.

“One day,” he promises, “One day I’ll lie you down and find all your sensitive spots and make you _squirm_ and then you’ll know what it feels like.” Geralt only moans at the idea. “There’s oil in my bag.”

“You carry oil around with you?” Geralt grins. Jaskier smacks him on the shoulder as Geralt fishes the bag out from underneath the bed where Jaskier had left it. “It’s for my _skin_ ,” he insists even though they both know Jaskier has never had dry skin a day in his life.

“Is it now?” Geralt teases.

“Fine.”

“What fine?”

“It wasn’t for my fucking skin, it was for when you were away and I had some time to myself,” Jaskier admits unabashedly. He doesn’t miss the interested twitch in Geralt’s cock as he stops he forgets his oil-hunt for a moment.

Jaskier takes the bag from him and fishes the oil out himself. “I thought of you,” he says, and it’s not as much an admission as it is a dare. Geralt shoves Jaskier roughly onto his back, a predatory look in his eye as he shoves the bag away and takes the oil from Jaskier.

“I smelled it,” he says, “when I came back I could always smell it.” Jaskier had never thought of that. “You had your pretty fingers inside you and you pretended it was _me_?” Geralt has turned the tables on Jaskier and now it’s he who is nodding dumbly, a blush surely painting his cheeks.

“I’ve missed out on so much, I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.” He coats his fingers in oil and looks questioningly at Jaskier, letting him choose how they proceed. Jaskier pulls him closer so that they’re almost nose to nose and Jaskier begins to think he has a thing for having Geralt on top of him, which is quite convenient because Geralt seems to have a thing for having Jaskier underneath him.

“Want you like this,” he says and wraps his legs around Geralt’s waist. Geralt kisses him deeply, he’s going to have swollen lips for days. Geralt slips the first finger into him, for no reason he can name, it feels like the best thing he’s ever felt. He grips Geralt tighter as he moans.

“Tell me if it hurts,” Geralt says rather seriously.

Jaskier replies with, “This is the best feeling in the world.”

“You haven’t even gotten to the actual fucking part yet,” the witcher comments slightly amused but Jaskier can tell that he’s in roughly the same state as him.

“Oh god is that going to be even better?” Jaskier asks nonsensically.

“Well I hope so,” he says, also rather nonsensically. Jaskier mewls anyway and Geralt adds another finger.

When he starts spreading them apart, Jaskier’s back arches like his soul is trying to leave his body and move in with Geralt’s just to be that much closer to him. “Oh my fucking gods,” Jaskier babbles, “shaking his head in disbelief, “where has this been all my life? How have I gone without you?”

Geralt adds a third finger, probably just to be safe or because maybe if he didn’t Jaskier would break on his cock. When he deems Jaskier ready, he pulls his fingers out and Jaskier whines at the loss and the promise of more.

“Are you sure?” he asks again and it’s met with a litany of “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, Geralt fucking _please_!” Jaskier is probably going insane.

And then finally, finally Geralt is pushing in, and Jaskier is gasping, his mouth is open in a silent moan. Geralt is so gentle and it’s so slow, so _beautifully_ slow but still it’s so much _more_ than Jaskier had ever imagined it would be, he’s never felt fuller than he does now. He can’t tell whether it’s from his unspoken vow of celibacy since he’s realized he wanted Geralt or just because it’s _Geralt_. He suspects the latter.

Geralt stops when he’s fully seated in him and Jaskier trembles a little in his hold. He can’t believe that it’s finally happening. He’d never imagined he would be here one day, never imagined Geralt _wouldn’t_ leave him or ignore him or whatever, he’d never imagined _this._

Geralt’s thumb strokes over Jaskier’s cheekbone, and only when he sees the furrow of worry between Geralt’s brows does he notice the tears Geralt is wiping away. He wonders what his scent smells like, Geralt looks slightly conscerned, and yet there is a fond expression there. “I’m crying,” he states with a laugh.

“You’re crying,” Geralt repeats.

“I’m insane.”

“You’re beautiful.” Jaskier kisses him soundly.

“You can move,” he says, trying to wipe away the tears. Geralt does as he is bid and starts moving. It’s the best thing Jaskier has ever felt in his whole years, Geralt’s fingers be damned, Jaskier will worship the Witcher’s cock for the rest of his life if he can. Jaskier can only imagine the gods had made them for each other, balanced them out with each other and attached a string to them both that pulled tighter, closer every day.

All intelligent thought has left Jaskier, the fact that he remembers to breathe is a miracle in itself. The room is filled only with their voices proclaiming their pleasure to each other, a melody woven together effortlessly.

Geralt sets a rhythm that matches the pounding of his heart, he wonders briefly if it’s intentional. Geralt changes the angle and suddenly it’s deeper, so much deeper than Jaskier had thought anything could ever be. Geralt hits a spot inside him then that makes his toes curl and a scream leave his already sore throat and Geralt makes a pleased sound at the discovery, he burrows his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breathing him in.

He hits the spot over and over until Jaskier can feel something building inside him, it grows like a tidal wave. “Geralt, touch me. Please,” he breathes. Geralt’s hand is already there, stroking him with a kind of soft carefulness that reminds Jaskier of handling glass. “I’m close,” he whispers.

“Come for me,” Geralt says equally softly, it’s not a command but a request.

Finally, the wave crashes, Jaskier paints Geralt’s hand and both their stomachs. He comes harder than ever before in his life. His release rolls over him in wave after wave. When Jaskier finally calms, Geralt’s hips stutter and he finds his own release deep inside Jaskier, as if he had been holding on just to see Jaskier reach his pleasure first.

They’re both breathing hard, Geralt is quivering above him with the strain of keeping the brunt of his weight off of Jaskier. He off of him and collapses onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Good gods,” he breathes.

“If I had known this is what it would feel like,” Jaskier says, breathing harder than Geralt, “I’d have demanded to have you the day I met you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm not sure how to feel about this but anyway, thank you for reading, please leave kudos and comments! :))


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it guys! It's a month or so late but this is the first multichapter story I have ever finished and if that doesn't scream commitment issues idk.  
> Anyway this is an epilogue of sorts so it's pretty short and with this, the story is done!

The ceiling doesn’t do anything interesting but they stare at it as if it does anyway. Heavy breaths turn to the clinks and clatters of the town as the rest of the world creeps slowly back into Geralt’s senses. Bliss hangs feather soft between them, it’s so sweet Geralt is hesitant to move or speak, as if the feeling were made of glass and it would come crashing down in pieces if he did anything at all.

Time seems to move too fast and too slow at the same time as he tries to bottle the feeling before it disappears.

Fingers sweep tentatively over his own and lace into his and for the first time, they are effectively holding hands for no reason other than to hold hands. Geralt doesn’t dare turn his head, breath caught in his throat.

“It won’t break.” Jaskier’s voice should have swept the feeling away, but it doesn’t. Jaskier squeezes and the tension bleeds out of him like a breath being finally released.

His fingers are gentle as they leave Geralt’s to curl around his jaw and turn his head to look at him. Something shimmers in the poet’s eyes, glinting around the corners.

Suddenly Jaskier bursts out into sobs. “What’s wrong?” Geralt asks frantically, eyes roving stupidly around but finding nothing. The tears are streaming down his cheeks but still Jaskier is smiling. Geralt can honestly say he’s never been so confused. 

“Nothing,” Jaskier insists with a laugh even though he’s _crying._

“Why are you crying?” Geralt asks, amused. Jaskier holds his arms open and Geralt moves readily so that Jaskier can wrap his arms around his shoulders and bury his tear stained face in his shoulder.

“S’just… S’just that I love you too much and I’m too small to contain it all,” he sobs, and starts laughing again. Geralt might just have broken his bard. “They were all about you.”

“What was all about me?”

“The _songs,_ ” he moans pitifully and Geralt will deny it until his dying day but his heart flutters straight out of his chest and into Jaskier’s hands right then and there because godsdamnit this is what it is to be in love.

“A bard needs a muse, Geralt.” Jaskier grabs the blanket and dabs at the corners of his eyes and is now taking advantage of Geralt’s body heat by wriggling on top of him and entertwining their legs.

“ _Muse?”_ Geralt sputters.

Jaskier giggles, “Who said big bad Witchers can’t be muses?”

Geralt doesn’t answer and instead huffs in amusement and wraps his arms around Jaskiers skinny torso and smiles into his hair.

“Will you sing it for me?” Geralt asks then and they both know what he means.

“Of course I will.”

Geralt moves his hand into Jaskier’s hair. Gods he’s never realized how much he’s always wanted to run his hands through Jaskier’s hair. “You never told me,” he states.

“I was afraid.”

“Of me?”

“Of _losing you_.” And for the first time in a long time, his throat tightens and tears blur his eyes as he holds Jaskier a little tighter.

They don’t get out of bed and instead let the quiet consume them. Geralt basks in doing nothing. It must be wonderful being Jaskier.

Just when he thinks Jaskier has fallen asleep, he says: “You know when I said they were all about you, I meant _all_ of them.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Oh you’ll figure it out.”

Geralt has no idea what he means and heaven only knows what is running through Jaskier’s head. But still, after the events that should have explained everything, Geralt still cannot read the man. A smile pulls insistently on his lips and he lets it break like a brilliant dawn on his face.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

*****

Two weeks later, they’re at some party of someone important who’s name Geralt has long since forgotten. Jaskier is twirling gracefully around the room, his singing and strumming unhindered by his dancing. The crowd is entrances, as is Geralt.

Jaskier is singing a song with lyrics of pure sin but the crowd is drunk and loving it. They clap in time with Jaskier’s steps, perfectly in sync with the beat. Geralt lingers on the outskirts, avoiding attention as he leans inconspicuously against a pillar.

He watches his lover sweep around the room, belting out the lyrics without an ounce of shame and suddenly, with words Geralt never thought he’d hear outside whorehouses, he _winks_ at Geralt and he remembers.

_“They were all about you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So um needless to say Jaskier had something coming later that night and honestly I might just write it who knows.  
> Please do leave kudos and comments for my decaying soul to sustain itself on if you know what I mean.  
> Thanks for reading! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to leave kudos and comments because all authors thrive on compliments. Thanks for reading!


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